


The Suit

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: As a newly deceased spirit in the Land of the Dead, Héctor Rivera has a lot to learn.





	The Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Moving another oneshot on over from Tumblr. It started as a fic exploring how Héctor slowly loses the charro suit he died in, piece by piece, as he tries to cross the bridge. 
> 
> I'm going to leave it marked as a oneshot for now since I'm not too sure when it'll be updated.
> 
> If I've made any mistakes--typos or in regards to my terrible TexMex/Spanglish--please let me know!

“Your case isn’t rare,” señora Castillo said, and pushed a paper flyer into Héctor’s open hand. Héctor’s fingers closed over it automatically, and Castillo patted the bare bones of his wrist with a smile. “We do get people who can’t find family here. You’re not alone, señor. There’s a hotel just a few blocks away that offers rooms at a fair price to newcomers who don’t have anywhere else to stay, and the first few nights are free! It’s small, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find something better soon. People always do!”

Héctor looked down at the flyer. The words _“Posada del Almancer”_ were printed across the top, the bold letters arching over a drawing of a stylized sun rising over a green horizon. Three boxes were lined at the bottom advertising the room rates, a meager restaurant menu, and a list of nearby attractions. 

Eyes skimming over the paper, Héctor was distracted by the sight of his skeletal thumb beneath the words _“beans a la charra”_ and he felt his missing heart skip a beat.

He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get used to being dead, but he’d already shocked himself a dozen times that night alone just looking at the bones of his hand, so he thought it might take… a while.

 _Dios._ He was dead.

“If you need anything, I’ve written our address on the back of the flyer. Just ask around, and I'm sure there will be someone who can help you find us. We’re here to help, Héctor. I know it’s difficult to be here without family, so please, _please_ visit if you need anything.”

And, Héctor thought, glancing up at the kind eyes of the clerk--he was alone.

“There’s also a map of the surrounding area,” Castillo said, tapping the flyer with her own skeletal finger. She had led him down the steps of the station after the New Arrival Orientation had finished, and had stayed with him before sending him off. Now, standing on the last step with him, she waved a hand at the breathtaking sight of the city around them, smiling. “There’s some good shops around here and some very good restaurants. After you get used to the area, you can travel farther! And listen, Héctor, it might feel like you’ll be alone forever--people tell me that, anyway!--but remember--and this is going to sound a little morbid, but we are dead, so--your family will be with you soon. You said you had a wife?”

“Yes,” Héctor said, the word almost sticking in his throat. He smiled. “Imelda. My wife Imelda.”

“Imelda,” Castillo repeated, and patted his hand reassuringly. “Imelda will be with you one day. You won’t be alone forever.”

“ _Gracias,_ ” Héctor said. He didn’t want to think about Imelda dying--even if all he wanted was to lie down and hold her and Coco forever. Even if death was the only way he could be with them again. He didn’t want to think of either of them dying. They had so many years ahead of them.

Unlike him.

 _Stop it,_ he thought, shaking himself. _Crying about it isn’t going to make things better. Por favor Rivera, get a hold of yourself._

“ _Bueno,_ ” he said, before he could break down again and embarrass himself in front of the clerk again, “I guess I’m off! Left or right, señora?”

“Right!” Castillo said, and pointed at a sidewalk lined with glowing wireframe trees. “Don’t forget to go over your New Arrival pamphlets again, and have a wonderful life in the Land of the Dead, Héctor!”

“ _That_ is a sentence I never thought I’d hear, but gracias either way! _Adios!_ ” Héctor forced himself to be cheerful. The only other option was falling to his knees and curling into a ball to fall into denial. But he’d done that earlier, and it hadn’t helped at all. The only good it had done was earn him a hug from his assigned greeter, Castillo, which he had desperately needed.

With a wave, he lifted his suitcase from the steps and turned in the direction Castillo had pointed. His suitcase had been nearby when he’d died, Castillo had explained, which was why he still had it with him. Everything he’d carried in it to the station was there--his spare outfits, his pencils and leather journal, his photo, some pesos hidden away in an obscure pocket sewed into the case’s inner lining. Everything, except for one thing.

Nobody had been able to explain why he didn’t have his guitar case with him. But he could have sworn he’d been carrying both cases in hand when he’d, when he’d--

_Don’t think about, don’t think about it, shake it off!_

Shaking his head, Héctor continued walking. He really could use someone to talk to right now. He'd even settle for Ernesto, who lately had brushed off his concerns and doubts as if they’d been trivial. Ernesto, who he wouldn’t see for… he didn’t know how long.

Until the people he’d known in life passed away, he didn’t know anyone here.

After he’d learned that he’d had no family to greet him because--and this had been explained to him gently, slowly, pityingly--there had been no one to remember them in life, he’d shaken so much his teeth had rattled.

He’d never known his parents. He’d never known anyone who had known his parents. He’d never had stories to pass down. But surely, someone out there had told stories of them? Someone had remembered them?

Regardless, no family records had been found, and no one had arrived to claim him.

He was just… alone.

He’d felt alone for a long time after leaving home to tour Mexico, even with Ernesto by his side. But at least then he’d had a family waiting for him at home. He’d had somewhere to return to when he grew weary of playing music for strangers. He’d had a wife and a daughter to send letters to.

But now he was alone again, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could never return to Santa Cecilia.

 _Hey! Stop it,_ he told himself as he walked. Skeletons moved past him, their skulls marked with brilliant colors that swept along their cheeks and around their eyes, and some had dazzling alebrijes that walked alongside them or perched on their shoulders. Fighting the grief that still filled him, Héctor tried to let himself be distracted by the spirits he would be living amongst for--well, he didn’t know how long he’d be here. Forever? Until he was forgotten? He had gone numb during that part of the orientation, a sort of static-y noise filling his mind as Castillo spoke gently to him.

He’d always known that you weren’t truly dead until you were forgotten, but he’d never thought--he’d never imagined--

He paused and rubbed at his brow. Distractions. He had been in the middle of distracting himself from those thoughts. It wouldn’t do him any good to break down in the middle of a street he didn’t know with dead strangers watching him. Taking a deep breath (he still wasn't clear on how that worked, he didn't have lungs, he shouldn't have been able to breathe _at all_ ) he looked up and began to walk a little faster, smiling at whoever he brushed by.

No one turned to look at him, a lone musician in a crowd of cheerful and chatty strangers, and no one seemed bothered by his staring. 

As the dead wandered past him, Héctor’s eyes were eventually drawn to the buildings that rose high above the cobblestone pathways. Each building was colorful and bright and some buildings stacked high atop each other. They made for quite a sight, and Héctor could even see buildings far off through the soft mist, their colors blurry through the haze. He wondered just how far the city reached. He’d have all the time in the world to explore, Castillo had told him. He could hire a guide since he didn’t have an alebrije, but he had to find a place to stay first, of course. 

That at least was something he could look forward to. As soon as he found a room to stay in, he would travel as far as he could and visit all the landmarks. If he could find some spare parchment, he would sketch what he saw. Maybe add some color to his sketches, because how could he not? With all the colors around him, he had to include them in his journaling. Coco love all the colors-- 

He froze. Coco. He wanted to tell Coco all about Mexico City. He wanted to tell her all about the Land of the Dead. He wanted to sit with her in her room, tell her about all the marvels he’d seen and the people he’d met. He wanted Imelda to sit next to him as he talked.

He had his suitcase in one hand and the flyer in the other, and he felt both bony hands clench hard. 

He should have never left.

 _Dios mio,_ he thought. He felt his feet moving, taking him down the path, but he was barely aware of the people he passed. That odd numbness was beginning to fall over him again. _I should never have left them. I want to go home. I--_

Something bumped into his legs and he stumbled.

“Watch it!”

Héctor stepped back. Right in his path, a squat skeleton glared up at him from under a wide brim and pointed at his face with a gnarled, bony finger.

“You need to get your head out of the clouds and watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Héctor held his free hand--the one with the flyer--out apologetically. “I didn’t see you there, señor--”

“ _Sí, lo sé muchacho,_ that’s why I said to get your head out of the clouds,” the skeleton said, sounding very grouchy, but his eyes were on the flyer in Héctor’s hand. His wide jaw shifted into a frown and he squinted one eye up at Héctor, who was ready to carefully inch around the annoyed stranger. 

But Héctor’s gaze was quickly taken by the guitar in the skeleton’s arms.

“Hey,” he said, a jolt of something other than grief going through him. He pointed with a grin at the instrument. “Is that your guitar?”

“Yes,” the skeleton snapped. He hugged the guitar closer to himself and narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I play the guitar,” Héctor said. He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty good, you know. Well, I _was_ pretty good. When I was alive.” An odd feeling swooped in his ribcage, and his shoulders sagged. “I… I didn’t have my guitar when I died. I thought I’d been holding it. I…”

His words trailed off. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

“Mariachi,” the skeleton said, and Héctor shook himself out of his stupor. The skeleton was looking over his charro suit. “You new here?”

“ _Si_ ,” Héctor said. He smiled shakily and held up the flyer. “I, ah, I’m trying to find--”

“It’s that way,” the skeleton said, pointing down a sidestreet with his thumb. The path was narrow, and the buildings to either side were squat and colorful, bulbs of warm light hanging from the rooftops. Still, though it seemed pleasant enough, Héctor wasn’t eager to walk by them. 

He mentally kicked himself. He needed to stop with all the grief. He was here, he was dead, and even if the hotel wasn’t home, it was all he had for now.

He’d manage it. 

“ _Gracias,_ ” he said. “Hey, do you stay there?”

“No,” the skeleton said. “I have a home. But I know the place.”

“Where do you play--”

“You’d better get yourself settled, _muchacho,_ ” the skeleton said, cutting off his question, and Héctor thought the guy’s gruff voice had softened just a tad. “And get a room before there’s none left. Then you’ll have to pay an arm and a leg for a room somewhere else!”

“Oh.” Héctor chuckled nervously. “You don’t mean, _literally_ … right?”

“Are you going to keep asking questions, or are you going to let me go home?” The skeleton grouched, and Héctor felt that awful feeling in his chest again at the question. 

Refusing to allow the grief to overwhelm him, Héctor gave the squat skeleton a cheerful salute. “ _Lo siento, señor_ but thank you for the advice! _Buenas tardes!_ ”

“Bah,” the skeletron said, waving a dismissive hand at him, and continued on his way down the street, guitar held close.

With one last look at the stranger, Héctor shrugged and headed down the path to Posada del Almancer.  


* * *

“You get seven nights free,” the hotel attendant said, bored, as he unlocked the heavy door with a ring of keys. “You wanna stay anymore nights, it’s going to cost you.”

“ _Esta bueno._ What can I pay with?” Héctor asked. He was still a little hazy on the trade system of the Land of the Dead. He’d have to go through that pamphlet again.

“Whatever you got with you,” the attendant--Chuy, Héctor remembered--said, and pushed the door open. 

The room was like a lot of hotel rooms Héctor had stayed in. Small and quiet and sparsely furnished. A lone bed sat against the left wall, and an oval mirror hung above a modest dresser next to a window against the far wall. A threadbare carpet, made of bright red and yellow and orange thread, was a splash of color near the bed, and a bouquet of what looked like paper roses was a little swatch of additional color on the dresser. 

Héctor nodded to himself. He could live here for a while, until he found something better. Until he found a home to furnish, where he could wait for Imelda and Coco. He could do this. Yeah, he could do it!

“Breakfast’s at 7,” Chuy said as Héctor walked into the room. “No lunch. Dinner’s at 7 too, but night. First eight meals are free, you can take them whenever you want. Boss is a generous guy. Then again, skeletons don’t really need to eat. Hey, you a mariachi?”

“Si!” Héctor said, turning to grin the skeleton. “Are there any others staying here?”

“Not that I know of,” Chuy said with a one shouldered shrug. “But if you need to get some stuff to trade, restaurants and event centers are always looking for new musicians.”

“Oh, si?” Héctor brightened. That was good news! “I could do that!”

“Yeah,” Chuy said. He was eyeing Héctor’s suit. “And if you don’t have anything by the eighth night, the boss loves a good traje de charro. You could trade that in for a couple more weeks.”

“Ah, hah,” Héctor chuckled and snorted, tugging his chaquetilla closer around him. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll find something before then!”

“Just saying,” Chuy said, before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

The room was quiet, and Héctor was alone.

He snorted. How rude! He could never trade in his traje de charro, not one single piece. He and Imelda had saved up good money for it, and he’d planned to purchase a sombrero with some really nice golden embroidery along the brim--

Before he could finish the thought, Héctor felt himself go numb.

He’d planned to buy the sombrero from a merchant in Santa Cecilia.

 _Stop it_ , he thought, and swung his suitcase onto the mattress. He stared at the brown leather cushioned by a soft blue comforter, phantom heart throbbing in his chest.

He’d done the same thing three nights ago, after arriving in Mexico City with Ernesto. After he’d finished writing a letter to Coco. The thin blanket on that bed had been green. He’d carefully set his guitar case next to the pillow, where he’d opened it to grin at the skull headstock that grinned back at him.

Héctor’s hands shook. 

He’d left them. He’d left them forever. He’d gone, hoping to return, to hold them again, but he’d only ended up dead and alone, leaving Imelda and Coco without a husband and father--

 _Stop,_ he thought, and tried to push the thoughts away. They would do him no good, not now. At least he knew for certain now that death wasn’t an end, and that the concept of life after death was real and solid and full of possibilities--

His life had been full of possibilities. He’d had so much to do. So much to see.

Castillo had said he could visit Imelda and Coco on Día de Muertos, a little over a year from now, and he could see how much Coco had grown. He could see his young daughter and his beautiful wife again.

But he had waited so long already. He had been going home, he had been on his way to see them again, he had been on his way to talk to them and hold them--

 _Por favor, Rivera, basta!_ He thought, desperate, but the breath he took in was a gasp, and the next, and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t _breathe._

He fell to his knees, gripped the edge of the mattress, the reality of where he was acting as a weight he couldn’t hold, pressing down on him from every direction. His shut his eyes and bowed his head and stayed that way, gasping into one shaking, skeletal hand, until he was too tired even to grieve, and exhaustion swept him under a wave of sleep, the room silent around him.


End file.
